Roomie
by Fififjonka
Summary: Collection of short fics. Living in a flat with Sherlock Holmes. Indescribable. There are many things John could never prepare for. Things that really must be experienced.
1. Midnight Tea

John was whistling while walking down the street. The movie was stupid but he had some good laughs with Sarah – regarding the plot. It was about midnight when he reached the house. He wanted to switch the lights on but the light-bulb was burned, obviously. He started climbing the stairs, using the light of his phone.

Somehow he found the way to his bedroom but the switch didn't work there either.

"What the –"

Right at the moment, he was jumped at from behind and pushed on the ground. John wanted to fight back but someone's fist punched his temple so hard his mind started spinning. They kept struggling for a few more minutes with John managing to get up on his feet, when the room enlightened suddenly, making John squeeze his eyes shut.

"I've got you!"

Sherlock materialized in front of him, knocking down a man in a black mask. He gave him one more punch just for sure and quickly tied his wrists and angles with duct tape.

"How was your date, John?" he asked casually while ensuring the tape was tight enough. John kept staring at him.

"What?"

"The date," Sherlock repeated, getting up. He was in his pyjamas, wearing a dressing gown on top of it. John managed to merely raise an eyebrow. Sherlock looked him up and down.

"Oh, I see. The movie was boring; the popcorn too salty, you didn't stay overnight but the late coffee was nice."

Sherlock walked away with John following him in shock.

"And don't wear the scarf next time, please. Not only it's a good way to get strangled, but the design is obnoxious. I'm sure Sarah seeing it once is enough. Good night, John."

John stopped in the middle of the living room.

"There's an unconscious man in my bedroom," he said, pointing at the door. Sherlock started strumming his violin.

"Don't worry he won't snort, I put tape over his mouth."

"That doesn't matter, I don't want him there," John said angrily. "And who is he in the first place? Why did he want to kill me?"

"He didn't want to kill you, of course," Sherlock said. "You're insignificant. He wanted to get me. Revenge – for putting his brother in jail. So I've done a good deed and sent him to his beloved brother."

Sherlock tightened one string on the violin.

"I thought he'd never come. The waiting was so boring. You didn't have to prolong the coffee so much, John, she wouldn't invite you to her place anyway…"

John blinked.

"Wait… You used me as bait?"

Sherlock looked at him.

"Yes, why?"

Somehow John couldn't find an answer that wouldn't include a punch in the face. He just took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down.

"Could you please remove the man from my bedroom?" he said silently.

"I'm sorry, but I need to finish this etude while I have it in my head…" Sherlock murmured, writing down some notes on a sheet of paper.

"And John," Sherlock stopped him half the way to his bedroom, "after you get rid of him, a cup of tea would be nice…"

John closed himself in the bedroom, sitting down on his bed and looking at the man on the ground. There were times like this when he was seriously doubting sharing a flat with this completely bizarre creature was a good decision. Despite he was fascinated by Sherlock and his absolute oblivion to his ways of insulting everybody around, he wasn't sure he was tolerant enough to handle it.

The man on the ground moved and groaned and John sighed, rubbing his eyes. Sherlock stuck his head to the door.

"Where's the tea, John?"

John looked up at him, seeing a smile on his face. He got up and went to the kitchen. He must have admitted Sherlock wasn't doing all this on purpose. That was the odd thing. He just was like that. This was his reality and in his reality, telling the hard truth to people's eyes, fighting a masked murderer at night or having body parts in the fridge seemed natural.

"Why are you smirking?" Sherlock asked behind him and John almost jumped up.

"Damn, Sherlock," he uttered, taking the tea tray into the living room. Sherlock was watching him with suspicions. John poured two cups of tea, handing him one. Sherlock thanked but didn't take his eyes off him.

"Something wrong?" he asked and John took a sip.

"No, nothing…"

"You're lying," Sherlock said calmly. John looked up. He saw Sherlock was obviously bothered by that. It seemed funny Sherlock was able to deduce like everything, he could even tell John was lying to him, but he couldn't put it together.

"I'm fine, Sherlock, really. Maybe still a bit… surprised by a murderer in my bedroom."

"Oh…" Sherlock said, evidently relieved. John shook his head lightly. He was sure many more unimaginable things would come in the future with Sherlock. Well, a lot to look forward to.


	2. Reunion

Account statement, _you're the winner_ thing, charity leaflet, another _you're the 1000__th__ winner_ thing… John was going through the regularly boring Monday mail when he found a thing that caught his attention.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock was contemplating in his armchair when John gave him the postcard.

"It's a primary school reunion invitation."

"I can read, thank you."

Sherlock let the card fall on the floor, continuing with his contemplating.

"Are you going to attend?"

"I am not," Sherlock said.

"Why? It can be fun. You'll meet your friends again, see where they've gone since you'd last seen them… I bet the class playboy is a utility worker and the class beauty owns a musty hair salon for old ladies."

Sherlock snorted slightly, looking straight ahead.

"So are you going?"

"Of course not," Sherlock said. "What a ridiculous idea."

* * *

"I can't believe I let you do this…"

John chuckled. The reunion took part in a smaller restaurant with a banquet and people were walking around them, chatting.

"I'm sorry, but to see the class of Sherlock Holmes was too tempting to resist…"

"Oh bloody hell, look who's here! It's Sherlock Holmes!" a dark-haired man shouted all of the sudden.

"Unbelievable! They let you out of the nuthouse?" another man asked.

"And who's this fellow, your counsellor?"

"Most probably tells him when to shut up…"

"Which is always…"

The group that gathered around them roared with laughter, all of them keeping their amused eyes on Sherlock.

"I'm actually his friend," John said, feeling the need to introduce himself and punch each one of them in the face.

"_Friend_?" the dark-haired man repeated. "So you're too from the nuthouse?"

Another burst of laughter. John faked a smile, narrowing his eyes.

"Hello, Richard," Sherlock said his first words since he'd entered. Richard shook his head in bewilderment, looking Sherlock up and down.

"I bet with Tom and Dave you wouldn't show up…"

"And here I am…" Sherlock said silently, shifting his eyes from one to another.

"So tell us, how are you? I'm dying to know…" Richard said, grinning.

"I'm doing fine, thank you. I live in a –"

"Remember Merlin?" Richard interrupted him, looking at John.

"We had a hamster in the class and Sherlock was calling it Merlin, would you believe that? Who would name a hamster _Merlin_?"

Richard was obviously enjoying it while all the others were laughing and giggling with him.

"Sherlock was just so _weird_, you know," a woman said to John. "It was the weirdest thing you could see with his scary mind tricks and stuff… Are you really his friend?"

"Or did you pay him to pretend it?" Richard added, laughing.

"Aren't you exhausted from all that laughing?" John remarked but Richard was unstoppable.

"You know the class types, right?" he said. "The clown, the mad genius, the odd kid nobody likes… We had it all in Sherlock. He even had a nickname – the freak."

"Cute…" John said. "It must have taken you ages to think that up."

While Richard was frowning, John glanced at Sherlock. He was watching his former classmates with a rather icy look. John was sure he knew what would follow.

"Hi, Susan," Sherlock said, "don't be sad your husband doesn't want to sleep with you, he's just met a younger, better-looking woman."

Sherlock turned at a man beside shocked Susan.

"And you, Mike, I remember you claiming your father would make you his successor. So why do you work as a garbage man? Or _that's _your family business? Nice to see you, Paul, found a new cheap porn shop? And you, Alex, when have you found out your wife is a lesbian? Oh, you haven't. I'm so sorry…"

Sherlock looked at Richard then.

"Richard, Richard…" Sherlock said with a glare that didn't predict anything good. "I must make sure to see your show. I've never been a big fan of cross-dressing art but I think I may give it a try…"

Sherlock fell silent then and walked away swiftly, leaving John standing there in the awkward silence, feeling extremely stupid.

"Well… it was really nice to meet all Sherlock's old friends… I've heard a lot about you… I mean, I've heard enough. And to be sincere – no, it wasn't particularly nice to meet you…"

John coughed.

"Have a nice day!"

When he was leaving, he could hear an angry scream: "My wife is not a lesbian!"

He caught up with Sherlock, who was marching down the street, frowning.

"Why haven't you told me your class was full of twats?"

Sherlock didn't say a word and John sighed. He could quite clearly imagine young little Sherlock trying to impress his classmates with his deductions, earning himself the label of the class lunatic. And if he thought they would accept him after all the years, he was wrong.

"Was there anyone in your class that… you know…"

"No," Sherlock said. "Nobody."

"I see…" John knew Sherlock wasn't just angry or disappointed. He was hurt. In his own way.

"Too bad I wasn't there," John remarked. "I could be your flunkey."

Sherlock chuckled a bit and John smiled, happy to cheer him up.

"So… when are we going?"

"Where?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Richard's show?"

"Oh…" Sherlock smirked. "This Saturday, perhaps?"

"Good," John nodded, "we must buy him a nice bunch of roses, you know, so we could throw them at him during the performance and scream for more…"

Sherlock laughed briefly, shaking his head.

"That's an excellent idea, John," he said. "Richard will love it."


	3. Rescue Mission

John picked up the ringing phone, yawning. Watching crappy TV shows with Mrs Hudson was boring as hell but still better than listening to Sherlock's rant about being bored.

"Yes?"

"John, is it you?"

John got up from the sofa, walking to the kitchen.

"What's wrong, Molly?" he asked, worried.

"I was trying to call Sherlock but he didn't pick it up…"

Molly's voice was considerably distressed and shaky.

"I need you to come to my flat. I have some troubles here," she whispered.

"_Please_, John, come right now!"

"Don't look so worried," Sherlock remarked on their way. "Her hair dyeing probably went wrong, that's all…"

"She was frightened, Sherlock," John said. "I could hear it in her voice."

"That still doesn't mean immense danger…" Sherlock said, imitating John's upset voice. The cab stopped and they got out, looking up at the building. There was light in Molly's windows. John was speeding up with a rather laid-back Sherlock following him. He knocked on the door several times before the door opened. And it wasn't Molly's face, but an ugly skinny man's instead.

"That the pizza already?"

"Who are you?" John said, perplexed.

"I'm Leo," he said. He had a high-pitched voice that sounded pretty creepy.

"What are you doing here? Where's Molly?"

"You know the bitch?" Leo asked, curious. John narrowed his eyes.

"Out of my way," he said, pushing him aside and walking in. He went through the flat, alarmed when he couldn't find any sign of Molly at all.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, she's not there!"

"Of course she's there."

Sherlock appeared behind him. There was nothing from his previous carelessness. His eyes were cold and hard and his expression a mixture of anger and – most probably – worries. He walked unerringly into the bedroom and to a door of the walk-in wardrobe.

"You can come out now, Molly," he said. There was a moment of silence.

"Hi, Sherlock," she said quietly and the door opened, revealing Molly's pale face. She didn't even look them in the eyes, looking somewhere on the floor.

"You been hiding all time, bitch?" Leo said, swaying his way to the bedroom.

"Shut up!" John said angrily; ready to beat the shit out of that bastard.

"How did you call her?" Sherlock asked, his voice dangerous. Leo tried to focus.

"I called her bitch, you stupid idiot."

"I apologize, Molly," Sherlock said. "For ruining your bedside table."

In the following second Sherlock punched Leo so hard he fell on the bedside table, breaking it.

"Now get out!" Sherlock shouted furiously and kicked him before Leo somehow picked himself up. All three of them watched him stumble out and when he was gone, John locked the door and returned to the bedroom. Sherlock was standing above Molly, who was sitting on her bed.

"Did he hurt you? Are you all right?" he asked in an urgent tone, crouching in front of her and observing her closely.

"I'm fine," she whispered, still lowering her eyes. Sherlock was visibly relieved.

"Who the hell was that?" John asked.

"I met him in a pub and I thought he was nice so I…"

"Wait," John said, widening his eyes slightly. "You _invited_ him?"

Molly nodded and her chin started trembling.

"Haven't you seen him?" Sherlock asked, bewildered. "An obvious psychopathic junkie."

"He wasn't!" Molly said quickly. "He was funny, he… he… was joking, he said I was pretty, he…"

Molly was almost choking and she fell silent, her eyes getting wet.

"I'm so stupid," she said, covering her face. "And it's so embarrassing… I don't understand why it always ends on the same note… I just can't help it; this is who I am… I'm sorry for calling you, I'm sorry you had to see that."

"Molly, I –"

"It's alright, Molly," Sherlock said in a soft voice. She looked up, her face puffed and red and glimmering with tears, her eyes wide open. Even John was surprised by the change. Sherlock reached out and touched her cheek gently. He chuckled afterwards.

"I'm sorry, you just look… well, you look funny."

"What?" she said, cracking a smile too. Sherlock squeezed her shoulder supportively.

"Right Molly, where's some booze?" John asked and returned with a bottle of whisky.

"Whisky?" Sherlock said. Molly gave him a look.

"A gift from a colleague. As you already know."

"Of course I do," Sherlock said, gesturing to John.

"Pour it, John."

John frowned.

"I'm not your servant, remember? I'm your friend. Or assistant."

"Yes, so you can assist me with boozing, am I right?" Sherlock said, smiling at Molly while he was handing her the glass.

"Cheers, Molly," Sherlock said, looking her in the eyes. "Because we are who we are. It's as simple as that. John, I think we're going to get a bit drunk tonight here, with our dear Molly. Hope she doesn't mind."

Molly looked like the happiest person in the world at the moment and she only managed to give in an indistinct sound of excitement.

"I think that means she doesn't," John said with a smile, pouring himself a glass as well.


	4. Let's Dance

John walked upstairs and stood still at the sound of music that evidently wasn't Sherlock playing his violin. He dared to open the door and widened his eyes in puzzlement when he saw furniture in the room moved away and Sherlock dancing in the middle of it with a broom. When the shock died out John observed him for a moment, noticing his dance moves were absolutely flawless.

"Want to join me?" Sherlock asked, turning around.

"What? No, no, thanks, I… have some work to do…"

John tilted his head.

"How come you're so good at it?"

"I've learned it," Sherlock answered, putting the broom aside.

"You should dance more often," John said and Sherlock looked up.

"Would you go to a ball with me?"

"As your partner?" John asked and Sherlock shrugged.

"Why not?"

"Do you want a list?"

John crossed his arms on his chest. He was a terrible dancer. He wouldn't even call himself a dancer. He was a terrible no-dancer.

"Right, show me," he said and Sherlock gave him a pleased look.

"Come here…"

John approached him and Sherlock caught him like he was a woman, leading him across the room swiftly. To tell the truth, John was surprised by the smooth and elegant way of his dance and it must have been clear from his expression because Sherlock lowered his eyes to him, smirking.

"Do I amaze you?" he asked in a low tone. John shook his head.

"Quite a lot, actually. Damn it, Sherlock, find yourself a woman. It's such a waste of dancing skills!"

Sherlock pouted, showing him a few more dancing steps. He stopped then, changing the music.

"I'm alright with my broom, thank you."

John sighed, sitting down on the sofa.

"You really learned it all by yourself? You took no course, no lessons at all?"

"All by myself," Sherlock said. "I wanted to attend the course at school, though."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because nobody would want to dance with the freak," Sherlock answered. John imagined again how Sherlock's childhood most probably looked like. A genius nobody understood, his intelligence casting him to a lonely, friendless place.

"Well, I think now there are many who would give anything for one dance with you," John said and Sherlock smiled slightly.

"Yours was for free."


	5. Embrace

"Oh my god!"

Molly had almost had a heart attack, pressing a hand against her chest, her eyes wide open.

"Sherlock! You frightened me. _Again._"

"Sorry," Sherlock said, walking around her and sitting behind the microscope.

"It wasn't my intention."

"Oh, I'm sure it wasn't…" Molly uttered, fixing her hair quickly, looking at the reflection in the glass cabinet for test tubes. She returned to her work then, continuing in silence. She would love to talk about something – anything – but Sherlock never paid any attention to what she was saying. He preferred silence and she had to deal with it.

If she just undressed and worked completely naked, Sherlock wouldn't most probably notice it at all. Molly smirked, shaking her head. It was like she didn't even exist. Well, maybe it was for the best – at least today.

"You bought flowers," Sherlock remarked all of the sudden, not looking up from the microscope. Molly glanced at him.

"Yes…" she said. "On a grave."

"Grave?" Sherlock repeated, absorbed by the specimen. Molly shook her head.

"Have you watched a TV show giving advices on polite small talks?" she asked, smiling nervously.

"What?" Sherlock said, absent-minded.

"Never mind…" Molly waved her hand. "Start with weather next time."

Sherlock finally looked up from the microscope, evidently trying to recall the conversation, judging by his slightly narrowed eyes. He seemed not to have a clue, though.

"You were asking about the flowers I bought," Molly said. "They are on a grave."

"Whose grave?" Sherlock asked.

"My father's," Molly said. "He died two years ago."

"Oh…" Sherlock said, obviously in the uncomfortable zone. "Well, I would have known if I had looked at you more closely."

"Which is something you never do," Molly remarked. Sherlock raised his eyebrows but didn't comment on that. She regretted it immediately. It wasn't entirely true. He was much better to her since his faked death. He just couldn't help himself and she knew it. She shouldn't be complaining. Sherlock was showing her his kind side – although it would be considered the exact opposite considering a _normal_ person.

"You've been crying…" Sherlock said. Molly swore in her mind. She should have put ice on her eyes.

"A bit… Memories, you know… I loved my dad, he was… he was a very sweet man… so funny and kind… and…"

Molly had no idea how it happened but tears were running down her face all of the sudden.

"Oh no," she said, annoyed by herself. "I'm sorry, I…"

She forced a terrible looking smile, wiping the tears that wouldn't stop coming.

"That's stupid… Just ignore me, please… I'm fine, it's just… I'm just…"

Her voice broke down and she looked away, trying hard to stop the cry. She achieved only that she looked like having a seizure.

Suddenly, she was embraced by Sherlock's arms. She yelped inaudibly with surprise. Sherlock didn't say anything but held her tightly, laying his chin on the top of her head. Molly eased slowly, accepting the offer of comfort. She buried her face in Sherlock's coat and allowed herself to let the tears flow.

When she looked up after a few minutes, Sherlock gave her a soft smirk.

"Do you feel better?"

"Yes," she nodded. "Thanks."

"Good," he said. He took a clean handkerchief out of his pocket and dried the tears on her face.

"Now that's better," he said. "I was wondering if you wouldn't want to go for a cup of coffee with me. That could lift your spirits up. And it would inflict less damage to my coat."

Molly laughed briefly, shaking her head. When she was able to go over the fact Sherlock insulted her basically in every second sentence he said – although unwillingly – he could be quite funny.

"OK," she said. "That would be nice."

"Wonderful," Sherlock said and opened the door, holding it for her. She walked out, thanking him.

"You're welcome. I'm just afraid you'll have to pay. Seems I've forgotten my valet."


End file.
